


Every Day a Little Death

by Xangonne



Category: Call of Cthulhu: Path of Perdition (Web Series), Internet Remix, Rolling with Remix: Masks of Nyarlathotep (Web Series)
Genre: Body Horror, Implied Sexual Content, Multi, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 08:35:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26969074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xangonne/pseuds/Xangonne
Summary: “You see I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there trying to forget the sad things that happened to me.”― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great GatsbyorThe various methods of drowning out pain.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Every Day a Little Death

* * *

It's been going on 42 hours.

The thought sprang unbidden to Mason's mind, as he fumbled with the keys to his apartment. His companion-- what was her name again?-- was kissing the back of his neck and that was providing enough of a distraction that it made opening the door harder than it should have been.

42 hours, maybe going on 43?

Mason was on the bed, pinning down his partner. She was small, and effervescent, and beautiful; her short dark hair spreading out on the pillow as she arched up against him. She whispered something that he could barely hear, but that didn't matter all that much. Mason tangled his hand in her hair, and she responded enthusiastically. He could taste the sweetness of her last drink as it lingered on her lips. A Singapore Sling, maybe? Sweet cherries blossomed at the edges of his vision, and just like that it became easy to fall into old habits.

Even if his mind was somewhere else-- his hands, his mouth, and his body still all knew what to do. He may have left the profession, but he was far from out of practice. Serena (so that was her name) ran her nails down his back and impatiently fumbled with his belt.

Yes, it must have been 43 hours at this point.

Mason leaned on the balcony railing, cigarette lit, and watched the first rays of sunlight as they crossed the horizon. Serena had left a few hours prior, murmuring something about hoping to see him again, to which Mason purred an appropriate response before closing the door behind her. Maybe it's been closer to 45? Mason took a drag on his cigarette, the smoke overpowering any other tastes on his tongue. At least with the light, it became easier to stave off the deep exhaustion that had settled into his bones, and curled around his shoulders.

Anything was better than sleeping.

He'd become very close friends with his razor-blade, scraping powder into orderly little lines. One. Two. Three. Each one made everything brighter and sharper, but it also chased off the shadows that crept about at the edges of his awareness-- lurking, and waiting for their opportunity to strike.

Morning comes, rise with the sun. Evening comes, go out. Night comes, find someone. Day in and day out.

He'd rather self-destruct.

* * *

Mason lazily watched the ceiling fan spin above his bed. It was mid-day, and the sun was bright enough to chase the shadows away. He left the lights on all the time now, mostly. Having light made it easier.

He looked over to the clock, but the numbers fuzzed out of focus and comprehension.

He thought that he was used to being lonely. He was sixteen when the solitude first took hold, and he first retreated to a safe part of his own mind. Since then, it just got easier and easier to fade away into the background. For a long time, he was able to find solace in the emptiness that existed behind his consciousness, but that had changed after New Mexico.

New Mexico.

Madrid and the poison in the rocks. Peter Hase and the Worm in his brain. Santa Fe and the blurry half-memory, half-experience of the shoot-out and the crawling corpse and the--

Mason found his hand on his chest, his fingers idly tracing the scar the scalpel had left, and then travelling to the bullet-scar closer to his shoulder. He clutched at the skin there, the half-moons of his fingernails cutting into his flesh.

Now, every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was a grin full of teeth like grave-stones.

His vision blurred with stinging tears.

* * *

72 hours at this point.

Mason was in his favourite speakeasy. The band was playing an easy sort of jazz tune, the type that invited people onto the floor to dance slowly with their lovers. The air was hazy in a warm, and comforting way. Mason sipped his drink, the gin working its way into his head with a pleasant buzz. This was his second round on the house. Benefits of having a pretty face was that people were always willing to give him his drinks for free.

The handsome auburn at the end of the bar raised his glass, and Mason felt his face flush. The auburn got up and meandered over, sitting next to Mason.

"I appreciate the drinks. To whom do I owe the pleasure?"

"Christopher. And the pleasure is all mine." The tone of his voice had a pleasant growl to it, and Mason found himself leaning in, towards him.

75 hours, probably.

Mason was outside the speakeasy, with Christopher's hand pulling his hair, and teeth at his neck. The night was still young, but Mason had been aching for something he couldn't put his finger on all night. The gin was tapping a rhythm alongside his heart, and they both hammered up against his rib-cage as Christopher pinned him against the rough bricks of the alley.

In between kisses, Mason managed to gasp out that his apartment was nearby. There was a blur of streetlights, a clink of keys, and a tangle of limbs. Mason came back to himself being pressed into his mattress, feeling like he had swallowed a line of fire. The auburn-- Christopher he reminded himself-- bit his ear and the pain sparked beautifully along his spine.

* * *

Mason considered himself in the mirror. He ran a thumb over the scruff along his jaw, and then down, along the marks on his neck. Sometimes it felt like a stranger was looking back at him. Maybe it was who he was: looking back at who he had become. The delicate skin below his eyes was bruised and purple.

The more he thought about it, the more it felt like he was what had been left behind.

His mouth felt suddenly dry as he considered the contents of his medicine cabinet behind the mirror itself.

His vision refocused, and his pulse quickened. What was that? Was there something behind his eye? The bile rose in his throat, but he gripped the sides of the sink and touched his forehead to the glass. The cool sensation was the real one, he told himself, as he counted backwards from ten and desperately tried not to throw up.

There was nothing there. No maggots. No worms. No deathwatch beetles. The clicking in the wall was nothing but the building settling and the other inhabitants; not an omen of death that tapped against his skull, reminding him that he was living on borrowed time.

At zero, he took a deep breath, then turned the faucet on to splash cold water on his face. He swiped water out of his eyes and looked into the mirror once more.

It was still him. Still the same face.

He blinked at his reflection blearily. Why had he expected to see something else entirely?

His throat itched. He scratched at it idly, then froze. The mirror reflected a shape behind him, standing silhouetted in the light of his bedroom window. He did not turn. He did not breathe. The tickle in his throat grew worse and worse until he found himself struggling not to cough or make any noise. He grabbed at his own neck, fingers digging into the skin there, attempting to stifle the sensation.

The figure in the reflection slowly turned.

Mason choked and heaved. He tried to scream for help, but instead of sound, the only thing that escaped his mouth was an enormous centipede. Its many legs scraped against his esophagus and mouth as it skittered out and crawled over his face. Mason clawed at his own face, but they kept coming. Worms. Millipedes. Cockroaches. Larvae. He was suffocating in their chitinous exoskeletons. He could feel them. He could feel them under his skin and behind his eyes and burrowing into the marrow of his very bones and--

He was on the tiles, looking up. Lester Goodman straddled him and held him down with a heavy hand. Mason couldn't move. He couldn't scream. All he could do was whimper as Lester leaned over him with that predatory grin and kissed--

* * *

Mason startled awake, kicking his tangled sheets away. He reached for his face with trembling hands, but everything was intact. The skin there was unbroken. There was no taste of death or decay on his tongue.

He swallowed thickly and sat up. It was mid-day. The sun streamed through the window and onto his bed. He was alone in his apartment. Mason waited for his pulse to still before he got out of bed and padded to the kitchen. He avoided the bathroom, and the mirror there.

Instead, he put some water on to boil and went through the ritual of brewing some coffee. He sat on his kitchen counter and buried his head in his hands as he waited for the grinds to steep. The smell was strong enough to reassure him that he was back in reality. Back in New York. Back in his own place. Free from the Dream.

He picked up the little vial of cocaine left out on the counter from the night before, and considered the fine powder inside. He tapped it out into the sink and washed it away.


End file.
